


We Saved Each Other, Or Did We?

by Meowbowwow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, I CANT TAG THE EXACT THING OR IT MIGHT RUIN THE FIC, M/M, Post Reichenbach, VERY SAD AND ANGSTY ENDING, but the ending might even make some people happy idk, mostly angst and a hint of fluff, the ending might make you weepy so beware of feels, twist ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowbowwow/pseuds/Meowbowwow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock met each other when they were almost dead. And they saved each other, they lived, they survived, they thrived. They also killed each other, or did they? Post Reichenbach. Beware of a twist in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Saved Each Other, Or Did We?

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, dripping wet from the rain, John was out. He sat there for minutes that stretched like hours, watching the light bounce off the glass on the mantelpiece, scattering into a multiple colours across the wall. Lights had always fascinated Sherlock, even as a child. He had never been interested in the solar system but at night when he couldn't sleep, he would lay down on his terrace, flat on his back and look at the stars till they twinkled into daylight. Lights blinking in a traffic jam, the lights on John's pupils as his eyes crinkled for a rare laugh, a laugh reserved for Sherlock, light as it reflected off John's hair when they watched television together, lights from London angling off John’s body as they made love early morning, John _,_ lights _, John, John, John._

It was a while after he heard John's familiar footsteps climbing up the stairs, hauling a grocery bag, no, two bags with him. A small parcel too, he had brought dinner then. The door opened and John smiled at Sherlock for a second before he actually saw the state Sherlock was in and the smile melted into concern and frustration. The man’s face was like Da Vinci’s canvas, Sherlock saw every little frown smooth into smiles and little creases warm into worry lanes, he knew that face better than the streets of London, it had an entire room for itself in his mind palace.

"Wha- Sherlock, you are dripping wet!" He quickly made his way to the couch and started peeling the clothes off Sherlock, continuing a low stream of commentary running for Sherlock's benefit. Phrases like 'careless', 'catch a cold', 'why don't you listen' et al managed to repeat themselves. Sherlock smiled a little as he stood there, shivering in nothing but his silk shorts. John was gone and back in a moment with fresh warm clothes and made Sherlock change as he went to find a towel and his biggest jumper.

When he came back, Sherlock was still sitting, though fully clothed now, goose fleshed and shivering a little but fixated on a particular spot where the light from the streets ran on the wall and disappeared into the darkness behind the door. He shoved the jumper in Sherlock's hands, breaking his mental revelry and drying his hair with a towel. Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh, being taken care of wasn't exactly something he was used to, even after years of living with John. He still enjoyed every cup of tea John made him drink and every piece of toast that was put in his mouth as if it was a first. Things never got boring with John, they just seemed to get better with every day…stable, more John-like.

It appalled Sherlock how someone like John could ever love someone like him. It wasn't a point of self-esteem but of preferences. It was against the laws of science for John to fall for someone like Sherlock and if Sherlock believed in one thing, it was the science. John loved people and enjoyed human company, he was polite to even someone as dim-witted as Anderson and patient towards Sherlock who called him things like stupid and what not. John had stayed when everyone had left. He had waited for him when everyone had moved on. He had believed. He had always believed in Sherlock, no matter what the evidence said. John held him close when the nightmares shook him out of his sleep, he dissolved them himself into him when Sherlock wanted to be alone. John was comfort. John was home.

Sherlock was surprised to find his head on John's lap, his fingers gently massaging his scalp, making Sherlock purr. He ran his thumb along Sherlock's neck and wrapped the jumper Sherlock hadn't bothered putting on around his exposed upper body, rubbing his hands warm and giving a satisfied smile as Sherlock curled into the warmth. How could the man still look at him like that after being abandoned for 3 years, what was John Watson made of. In fact, it struck Sherlock, only John was capable of doing something like that. He found John's hands in his own and squeezed them a little. John leaned down and planted a kiss on Sherlock's nose, shifting to kiss him between his eyes and then his forehead and two kisses on his nose.

It was always simple with John, even the kisses were unhurried and seemed to last longer than they actually were. They were predictable, they had a pattern, no mystery and yet, they were always welcome, they were always new. Sherlock could feel the warmth of their first kiss in his stomach, the very thought of it gave his heart a happy flip, making him smile for no reason whatsoever. This is what John had done to him. He had been satisfied with his life before John, John had filled in the holes and made him happy. He pulled John down for another kiss, getting the angle wrong and getting John's nose instead as John laughed loudly, spreading more warmth than a jumper ever could.

"Mm, sleepy..." Sherlock mumbled, coaxing John into joining him.

"We haven't had dinner yet, Sherlock. No, don't make that face. You must eat," John said strictly. Dinner would have gotten cold by now and he got up to microwave it. Sherlock still mumbled and pouted sleepily like the child that he was, arguing how eating was a waste of time and that he wasn't even hungry. He still ate everything John fed him, not getting up even after John assured him that he would choke to death on the couch. However, when John tried to emotionally blackmail him by saying how he would be devastated if Sherlock left him again, Sherlock immediately got up and resumed eating with a mournful expression fit for a funeral that made John giggle and earned Sherlock a vanilla ice cream tasting kiss for dessert.

They slept on the couch, curled into each other, John being the small spoon and Sherlock more than happy in obliging. Sherlock had always been a light sleeper and would wake up at odd hours. It was one such night. He woke up to find John sprawled across his chest, their breathing synced. He carefully extracted himself from under John and made to find a cure for the boredom that was threatening to rip his head apart.

The door to John's room was open. Inside was a study table, the second drawer of which caught Sherlock's attention for it had a leather bound journal. A journal that said -  _Personal, Do not read._ Of course, Sherlock started at once.

* * *

He leafed through random pages, drinking John's familiar handwriting in - the loopy y's and the open a's, how there was a lucidity and flow to the letters in the beginning and how, slowly, the words started looking bad,  _very_ bad - the tremor had returned.

> _15th August_
> 
> _It's been 2 months today since I last saw him. Saw him in flesh, that is, because I keep seeing him still. Sometimes when I come back from the hospital, I can swear I hear the violin or his shadow playing across the window. Until a few months ago, I would run up, aching and treacherous hope fluttering in my chest and find the flat as devoid of him as the world was. And I would slump across the crouch and try to breathe the last of his scent from the flat, any semblance of reality is welcome. I don't know what's real anymore. I don't know what to believe._
> 
> _3rd September_
> 
> _Sleep eludes me. I am scared of it, the nightmares just won't stop. Today I woke up shivering in Sherlock's arms. It was real. I swear it was, he had his fingers in my hair and his soothing voice calmed me to sleep again. But when I woke up, he was gone. Why would he do that? It was him, I know it was. Why would he leave me again?_

The writing had turned really bad at this point, it was almost impossible to make out the letters and the ink was blotched at most places, omitting complete sentences. Something seemed to knot in Sherlock's chest and then trickle into his whole body only to knot again. There was pain, extreme pain and then there was nothing. It was like dying and getting resurrected, again and again and again. He flipped through the book, the entries grew in number but he couldn't read anything. Anything except for the last page, the writing was crystal clear, there was no date -

> _I write this now because in a few seconds I won't be able to. I am sitting on the roof of Bart's and I can see his body down there, on the pavement. I can see him moving with the crowd. Every whistle of the wind has his scent, every shake of hand his warmth. I know he would have wanted this. I know it, I can see him smiling down at me with his body all broken and his face all bloody. I hear him call my name and he laughs till his grey eyes are mere glints in the sky. I love him and always will._

There was a movement at the door and Sherlock turned around, his eyes burning with tears.

"You - what...I don't…" he tried to speak. John stood there, calm and composed.

"I am here, Sherlock. I am here," he held Sherlock's hands in his cold ones, pushing his messy hair off his forehead and kissing his eyes. Sherlock sat there, his mouth open, his mind frightfully empty of everything. He felt drained, exhausted, what was all this? Was it…real?

"You are real." He said. It was a statement. He traced John's jaw with his finger, ran it through his cheekbones and touched his temples, then went down his neck feeling no hint of a flutter. He sat there, amazed, not believing.

"You are real," he repeated. John cupped his face in his hands, trying to wipe the tears that were now flowing without abandon.

"It can't be... YOU ARE REAL!" Sherlock screamed at John, his throat hoarse from crying. His head hurt but he let John touch him, held his gaze, willing him to speak, to explain. Anything. Words, he wanted the comfort of words, he wanted John back, he wanted his sanity.

"Am I?" John asked simply, but it wasn't really a question. It was a statement. Sherlock held him close, breathing into the scent of his jumper. John smelled of tea and Sherlock and juniper soap and Sherlock.

"Sherlock, how did you survive the fall?" he whispered in his ears, silver tears dotting the corner of his eyes, his lips quivering a little and Sherlock closed his eyes, clutching at John.

_Sherlock stood on top of St Bart's, Moriarty lay dead behind him, rotting in his own blood. And John stood there across the street, the pain tangible ever from afar. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed as much as he could, trying to live exponentially in that one second. He had to jump for John. For Mrs.Hudson. For Lestrade. For everyone he held dear. They wouldn't live if he did and then, what would life be without his friends. The word turned in his mouth, settling under his tongue and for once, it didn't mock him. He jumped. It hurt a little as his body crashed on the pavement, it hurt a lot. He could feel his skull crack and then, it went black. Nothingness engulfed him. He could hear John's name from far away, he tried to reach, far far far, too far..._

"I didn't," he looked at John and saw him crying too. They had both saved each other, they had met when they were dead and they had lived. Made each other live, survived and thrived. And then, they had killed each other.

Sherlock let his tears soak John's jumper and felt his own pulse, curious even in death. There was nothing. But there was happiness. Happiness throbbed with blissful abandon, ghosting between their eyes and settling behind their lids. At least in death, they were together.

"Do you want some tea, Sherlock? Or something to eat?" John said, stroking his back gently and making to get up.

"No, eating is boring. Just like breathing," he smiled as he caught the smaller man in his arms and turned him around, kissing him against the door. John giggled and pushed him back, running down the stairs. Mrs.Hudson sniffled in her sleep, dismissing the thought of a noise in the above flat, the flat that had not been let out to anyone, that still stood as it always had. The flat she dusted every day just so that she could believe. She believed in them and smiled to herself in her sleep, as Sherlock ran after John, laughing loudly, his robe swishing in his wake.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know of an typos or errors you find and I'll be more than happy to fix them.  
> xoxo  
> Meow


End file.
